Two cups of Tea
by aliealouise
Summary: John never stopped making two cups of Tea. OneShot Johnlock within so if you don't like don't read. If you do like then come on in.


**So this is my first venture into the world of BBC Sherlock. Hope you enjoy.**

 **Warning Adult content, very much a Johnlock fic.**

 **I own nothing! :(**

John never got out of the habit of making two cups of tea, even after two year he always took out two mugs filling them each with a tea bag, adding sugar to one, before adding a dash of milk to both. He would steep the tea each varying in strength as they both had different tastes before taking the mugs into the living room and placing one on the coffee table next to his chair and the other on the mantel piece above the fire. He didn't know why he did that but that was where he always placed the second cup of tea so that when he sat on his chair he would watch as the steam caused condensation to appear on the mirror.

So the morning when he thought he had truly lost it he went about his normal morning routine making the two cups of tea placing one on the table and the other on the mantel piece and as he sat looking up at the mirror watching the condensation he let out a long sigh. He was tired, the night before he had once again been plagued by nightmares, nightmares that had changed in the last two years. No longer did they contain hot deserts and burning pain in his shoulder, they now contained grey skies and something dark falling to the ground and when it hit he would always wake up shouting a name as pain ripping its way through his chest. He hated that pain, pain that reminded him that his heart was still there that it had not been totally destroyed even though its reason for being had been taken from the world.

Running a hand over his face he let his eyes close for a moment before picking up his tea, letting its normality sooth him as much as it could. Once finished he made his way to the bathroom and took a shower before heading up stairs and getting changed. He had moved back into the upstairs room two years ago his body not physically able to go into the other bedroom, he would always stop at the threshold his feet sticking to the ground as though some invisible force halted held him back. In the end Mrs Hudson had been the one to get Johns things from the room and then she had packed up a few of His stuff, placing His expensive well cut suits in suit bags and folding His other things away into boxes. It had also been Mrs Hudson who had cleaned the table of all of the science equipment, a task she had done one day while John was out. When he had returned he said nothing as he looked at the kitchen which for the first time since he had moved in was sparse and clean.

Making his way back down stairs he picked up his empty tea cup and went to retrieve the other from the mantel piece but his hand froze just before he grabbed it. The cup was empty and the angle of the cup had changed slightly the handle a bit closer to the wall. Frowning deeply he curled his fingers into a fist and tried to rationalize. Maybe he hadn't made the tea, maybe he had just placed an empty cup there. But as he looked at the mirror he could clearly see where the mirror had condensate and small drops of water had gathered just like they always did, because then he would get a dry cloth and clean the mirror before leaving for work.

So who had drank the tea?

Dropping his still clenched fist to his side he turned and looked around the living room before walking into the kitchen. Everything was how he had left it, everything was in its place but as he looked down the hallway to the room he never entered, the room which had always had its door closed he felt adrenalin start to pump through his veins.

The door was open, not fully, but it was open and he knew for a fact that he didn't open it.

Placing his cup on the kitchen table he slowly made his way down the hallway till he was stood outside their room, the room that had automatically become theirs once they had shared that first...no, he wasn't going to think about that.

Stopping at the threshold he slowly lifted his hand and for the first time in two years his feet allowed him to move slowly into the room.

The room was dark the only light coming from a crack in the closed curtains and from the light behind him in the hallway but it was enough for him to see the boxes piled next to the wardrobe and the bed which for some reason Mrs Hudson had always kept made. But the covers had been turned down and a figure was led face down upon the sheets. Black shoe clad feet hung off the bed closest to the door followed by black clade legs a white shirt covering a slim back and arms, arms which where folded under a head covered in dark curls.

John stopped breathing.

He had finally lost it.

Two years it seemed was the time it took for one to totally go mad from grief. Two years of mourning of trying to get on with life, of living with a heart that shouldn't been even beating, two years of not even being totally alive. That was what it took to go totally strake raving mad.

Stepping out of the room John quietly closed the door before turning and without even really thinking about it just grabbed his coat and left the flat.

The rest of the day he went about his job as though he hadn't just saw his dead friend led asleep on their bed, as though he hadn't just gone totally mad. He went about his day as he had always done, quietly and efficiently.

When he returned home he stopped at the bottom of the stairs his hand holding onto the railing as he looked up. Part of him was afraid to go up afraid to find the place empty while the other part was afraid to find Him there because then John was sure he would have to go and section himself.

Taking in a few deep breaths he slowly walked up the stairs, missing the creaky step and entering the living room.

It was empty, of course it was empty, He wasn't really there.

Shrugging his coat off John hung it up before going into the kitchen intent on making a cup of tea but stopped as he reached the door his eyes locking onto a cup placed on his little table next to his chair, a cup full of still steaming tea.

"I assume you still don't take sugar?" A deep baritone voice asked from within the kitchen.

John's heart did something funny in his chest at the voice. It seemed to constrict before it started to beat hard and fast as though it had just started for the first time.

However John refused to look in the kitchen, instead he kept his eyes locked on the tea before him. He was afraid to look, to take in either the nothingness that was sure to present itself if he was to look in the kitchen but equally afraid to look upon the man who had just spoken.

"John?"

John's response to his name was instant, a shiver he had not felt in a very long time ran through his body and he eyes closed as he remembered his name being said by that voice on so many different occasions until it stopped at the wall he had built around the memory that only came to light in his nightmares.

Heat suddenly invaded his private space and he knew without opening his eyes that the other had moved to stand before him.

"John open your eyes."

John shook his head.

"Please."

"No." John was shocked at how strong his voice was.

"Why not?" The penetrating voice asked accompanied by a touch to John's hand.

John's fists clenched but the touch remained.

"I've totally lost it." John muttered more to himself than anything else.

A laugh responded to John's words a laugh that caused Johns lips to pull slightly at the corners.

"Laugh all you want Sherlock but you have finally pushed me to the edge."

When the voice answered it was right in his ear. "I've pushed you to the edge many a time Doctor Watson but I always made sure I pulled you back."

John opened his eyes then turning slightly to look into silver blue ones which where only inches away from him. Swallowing, John slowly, ever so slowly reached up till his fingers came in contact with pale white skin, skin that was warm to the touch, skin that was solid, skin that felt so familiar in so many ways yet was new because it had been so long.

"If I truly had gone mad, please don't let anyone cure me." John whispered as his fingers moved from chin to cheek and then to soft lips.

"This is real John." The lips he was touching gently kissed his fingertips before a hand moved up taking his hand and pressing it firmly against a shirt clad chest. "I'm real. I'm really here."

"But...you died."

"I...John I am so sorry."

"Sorry..." John repeated as his fingers fisted the white shirt and his dark eyes found silver yet again. "Sorry..."

"Yes, I had..." John cut the words off from Sherlock's mouth as his free hand delved deep into dark curls at the same time as he pulled on the white shirt his lips finding their mark easily.

He felt the other man's shock but in less than a second Sherlock was kissing him back his pale hands on either side of Johns face.

John then pushed hard forcing the other man away from him. "You fucking bastard." John's voice was dead.

"John..." Sherlock started as he straightened himself after being pushed away.

"No." John shook his head. "Don't."

"John please you need to understand."

"Understand." John nodded. "Understand, okay, I understand that two years ago you made me watch as you..." He stopped still not able to bring himself to say it. "I understand that for the last two years I have lived without really living, I understand that my heart basically stopped functioning because it no long had its reason for being. I understand that for the last two years I have grieved, I also understand that for the last two you years you seem to not be dead!" He paused taking a breath. "Did I miss anything?"

Sherlock said nothing a feat that John knew was taking all of his willpower.

The two men stared at each other for the longest time but in the end it was John that looked away first. He was finding it extremely difficult not to break, not just pull Sherlock back to him and hold him, not to just kiss him till he was breathless, to take him right there in the middle of the living room. But his anger made sure that he didn't give in, it made sure to keep hitting him with wave after wave of the hurt John was currently trying to keep in check.

Finally John allowed his eyes to look back to Sherlock before he turned and made his way to the door.

"John!" He stopped at the plea in the that voice but he didn't turn.

"I'm going to bed Sherlock."

"You're not leaving?" John turned then.

"I never have left Sherlock." He saw his words hit home and part of him wanted to take them back but the part that was angry the part currently controlling him was pleased to see the pain those words inflicted.

"The bedroom is that way." Sherlock said pointing down the hall.

"I've not slept in there for two years, why should I start now?" He didn't wait for an answer he just turned and made his way up to his room.

He never intended to sleep, in fact he didn't even think that sleep would have been possible but somehow it had taken him and when he woke it was to the sound of the violin.

Sitting up John looked towards his bedroom door and just listened as the sound the instrument made ran through him. He had dreamt often of waking up to the sound of the stravadas but once awake the music had always stopped, but not tonight, tonight it continued and the music was sad.

Pushing his covers from his legs John couldn't help himself as he moved to the door and quietly opened it letting the music flood his ears even more. Closing his eyes he lent against the doorframe as the sad longing music filled him.

How could he resist this? How could he allow himself to deny not only Sherlock but himself as well? He had dreamt of this for so long had wanted this, he had even asked the man playing that music to just not be dead and he had granted it.

Slowly he made his way down the stairs not wanting to interrupt Sherlock as he played. Once he was at the door leading to the living room his heart leapt at the sight of the man before him playing with his eyes closed swaying slightly to the music he played.

This was the only time he would ever catch Sherlock in a moment of peace in a moment where his mind would be quiet, at least it was the only time he saw him like this when they both weren't covered in sweat and John had just finished taking him apart.

As he stood watching the man he loved, the man he had been grieving for too long he came very quickly to a decision. Stepping into the living room he kept his eyes on Sherlock as he stopped playing and lowered the violin before opening his eyes to take in John. Feeling his heart rate increase at the look in the other's eyes John closed the gap between them took the violin and bow from pale hands before placing them gently on the long coffee table in front of the sofa. He then turned back to the world's only consulting detective his dark blue eyes running over the man dressed in a long blue silk dressing gown which was thrown over the white shirt and black trousers he had been wearing earlier. Once their eyes met again John closed the gap between them even more his head tilting back slightly to keep eye contact with the other.

"John?" The deep voice spoke in a whisper but it held so much in that one word. John could hear the plea as well as the want and need he knew that the both of them were feeling. He also could see how much Sherlock was holding back, he knew the other man wanted nothing more than to touch him to feel him but he waited because he knew if he made a move without Johns permission he would scare the other man away.

"Don't move." The voice that spoke was soft but it held a command to it that would not be disobeyed.

Reaching out John lifted both hands and pushed the blue dressing gown from slim shoulders letting it pool on the floor around Sherlock's bare feet. He then started to pull at the white shirt pulling it free of the black suit trousers before slowly undoing each button on that shirt starting from the top. When the last button was done he undid the cuff buttons and like the dressing gown he pushed it from slim shoulders all the while not touching a single inch of the pale skin that was reviled to him.

His eyes however drank everything in.

He remembered every inch of Sherlock's body, he remembered the look of it the feel of it under his fingers after all he had spent a very long time committing every stray freckle and scare to memory. So now that he was once again confront with the body he knew yet saw things he had never seen before he yet again felt anger rising within him, however this time the anger wasn't at the man before him it was at who ever had inflicted the new scares and still fresh wounds upon his body.

Lifting his hands once again he traced every single new mark upon the pale skin before him committing these new markings to his memory and fighting with himself to not ask how each and every one of them had been made. They had time for that, but right now he just wanted to make sure, to get it right within his mind that the man he loved was truly stood before him.

As his hand moved over Sherlock's stomach and chest he watched as the other shuddered and involuntary flinched as Johns fingers found sensitive areas but he didn't stop till he was satisfied he had felt every inch of glorious pale skin before him.

When he was done he looked back up and smiled slightly at the slight blush that coloured Sherlock's face and the fact that the other man's breathing was slightly ragged as well as the pupils within those silver eyes being dilated.

"So not dead?"

"No..."

"Then you better kiss me before I stop believing you again." Sherlock it seemed didn't need asking twice. Instantly soft lip found Johns and then somehow he found himself pushed against a wall as long fingers tugged on his hair pulling his head back slightly allowing Sherlock better access to his lips enabling him to deepen the kiss while his other hand found its way under Johns shirt to splay across his side before reaching around to his back and pulling him against the him even more.

John's hands had found themselves grasping thin hips, hips a lot thinner than he remembered, but right now as he pulled Sherlock harder against him, all he cared about was the hard heat pressed against him a feeling that caused him to press his own building pressure against the other.

As the friction between the two men built a growl came from Sherlock as he tried to pull Johns shirt from him but he was also unwilling to pull away from him to put even an inch between them to lift the shirt from him. In the end John pushed Sherlock back and in the few seconds apart he saw the pain that push caused in Sherlock's eyes but he made sure to get rid of that and quickly, so he pulled his own shirt off and then with skill learnt from his army days he tackled the other the man to the floor until he was lead on top of him with one leg in-between the other man's legs the other bent slightly so that not all his weight was upon the thin body below him. He then caught those soft full lips once again with his own.

Sherlock's hands had found their way into John's hair, hair that he had recently neglected and so enabled Sherlock's long fingers to tug slightly as he moved Johns head so that he could deepen the kiss further by delving his tongue into John's mouth causing a moan to escape the doctor.

John's hands had also found hair, dark silken curls that had always begged to be touched and yet it had taken John far too long to do it, but at the first touch all those years ago he had instantly become addicted. It had become a thing with him were he would touch Sherlock's hair every chance he got, be it while they kissed or when John had passed the other man a cup of tea or when he came up behind the detective while the man was looking through his micro scope. He took each and every moment that he could to delve his fingers into those curls and since he had been without his addiction for the last two years he now let his fingers go to town feeling every single strand and curl but also pulling slightly to show that deep down he was still angry at the man under him for letting him think he was dead.

John broke the kiss but only so that he could start kissing down the long pale throat and then biting at the pulse point causing a deep moan of pleasure to escape Sherlock. But he didn't stop there, John wanted, he needed to kiss, to lick and bite every inch of skin his mouth came in contact with. He needed to recommit this man back into his memory but he also needed to make sure, to truly ingrain into his mind that this was real and he hadn't finally gone mad as he had thought earlier in the day.

By the time John had reached the top of Sherlock's trousers the other man had already become a shivering incoherent wreck at John ministration.

Smiling to himself John quickly undid the belt buckle and trousers Sherlock wore before tugging the offending garments from his lover along with the silken boxers Sherlock always preferred to wear, his eyes taking in the hard silken shaft before him with a hunger he had not felt in a very long time.

"John..." The word was a gasped as Sherlock looked down at John with pleading eyes, but John was not finished with his recommitment, so rather than taking the other man in hand he went lower and kissed the inside of first the left leg and then the right leg his hands running down both legs before running back up as he kissed even higher on each leg before placing both hands on the thin hips he had felt before and letting his tongue reach out and lick from the base of Sherlock's cock to the tip causing Sherlock's hips to buck but John held him down as he took the man into his mouth.

Looking up John watched as Sherlock head was thrown back and a cry of pleasure came from his cupid bow lips. John couldn't help but feel pride at doing that to the other man, but he also felt something deeper. This man was his, this man belonged to no one else but him and he was going to make sure that Sherlock remembered that.

Slowly he lifted his head sucking slightly as he did before swirling his tongue around the tip tasting the first bit of precum as he did savouring it as he lowered his head once again.

Long thin fingers soon found their way back into John's hair as Sherlock tried to get John to go faster to bring him to the edge and push him over. But John was in charge not Sherlock, so he took the hand from his head and pinned it to the floor, causing the other hand to take its place but John simply did the same to that before continuing his slow torture.

He soon had Sherlock pleading with him, begging him to go faster, to let his hands go so that he could touch John, but John refused.

After nearly ten minutes of teasing John lifted his head and looked down at then man before him.

"Who do you belong to Sherlock?" He asked in a hushed tone.

"John...please!" John shook his head as he pulled down his sleep shorts and threw them with the pile of clothes close by.

"No Sherlock."

"John...I belong to John...to you!"

John nodded at this as he reached down and ran his fingers over Sherlock's opening, his own saliva from the last ten minutes creating enough lubricant to push first one then another finger into his lover. This had Sherlock crying out once again his finger clawing at the floor under him.

"Yes you do, and you are never to leave me like that again! You are never to make me suffer that way ever again!" As he spoke he took his fingers from the other man before lining himself up and with his next words he pushed himself in to the hilt. "Do you understand!?"

Sherlock really cried out then his back arch up off the floor a single word escaping his lips. "Yes."

John wasted no time in moving after that, he pulled out and then thrust forward over and over again until he felt himself reaching his peak. Reaching down he took Sherlock in hand and started to pump him for all he was worth.

In the end Sherlock came first his cries of pleasure ringing out though the flat and all John could do was watch as he totally deconstructed the man before him, watching as the silver eyes that normally saw everything became blind as wave after wave of ecstasy took over his brilliant all seeing mind. And it was enough to send John over the edge his own cries joining Sherlock's until he fell forward landing on Sherlock's chest.

As they both caught their breath John let his eyes close as he listened to the rapidly beating heart under his ear start to slow and then before he knew what was happening tears stared to fall.

Turning his head slightly to hide his face, John tried to fight the sobs that threatened to escape him but as he continued to listen to Sherlock's heart, a heart he thought he would never hear again he lost all control.

"John?" Sherlock asked concern clear in his voice as he wrapped his arms around the smaller man his head looking down so that he could look at his lover. "John...oh god John I am so sorry."

John didn't know how he did it, but somehow Sherlock moved them both to the sofa where John laid in-between Sherlock's legs as the taller man lent against one of the arms, he was then covered up by a blanket that had been folder on the back of the sofa.

Feeling like an idiot for crying the way he was he continued to hide his face against Sherlock's chest, all the while Sherlock gently ran his fingers through his hair and over his back, but he remained silent, letting his body speak for him as he wrapped himself around John almost as though he wanted to pull all of Johns pain into himself and free the doctor of all the hurt he had caused.

In the end John fell asleep, it had after all been a rather emotional day and after everything he was exhausted.

When he woke he was on his own led on the sofa still wrapped up in the blanket. The sun was up causing strands of light to fall on the wooden floor now clear of clothes and showing no signs of what had happened the night before.

Sitting up he took in the empty living room as he wrapped the blanket more around him, his eyes trying to find anything to let him know that the day before had been real, that it hadn't all just been a dream, a delusion made up by his mind now gone totally mad.

The violin was back in its place, the place it hadn't moved from in the last two years, the long black coat that was Sherlock's armour was missing from the closed living room door and apart from the sound of Johns beating heart there was no other sound within the flat.

Not thinking, John stood, still holding the blanket and made his way to the room he had refused to enter for two years and pushed the door open. It was empty, of course it was empty, but within held something he knew had been placed in there when he had threatened to use it only a few weeks after Sherlock's death.

Stepping over the threshold John sat on the bed his eyes taking a look around at the boxes and packed clothes before reaching under the bed and pulling free the box he knew was under there. Placing the polished wooden box on his knee he undid the catches and then opened it to revile his beloved Browning 1911. He hadn't touched or seen the weapon since he had sat in the living room, with it held in his hands, the barrel placed against his lips. He had waited for tears to come, for the feelings of loss that had consumed him since the day Sherlock had died to overcome him but they never came, he had become empty, there was nothing left, and that was how Mycroft had found him. Of course Mycroft had kept an eye on John and at the first sign of the doctor losing it he had appeared.

Now though John was so overcome with everything, so lost in emotion that as he lifted the gun and loaded it he had trouble seeing as tears blurred his vision. Finally he loaded the gun switched the safety off and with shaky hands he turned it onto himself.

However before he pulled the trigger pale hands slowly covered his and pulled his fingers from the gun before taking it switching the safety on and placing it on the floor away from John.

Blinking a few times John looked up as his vision cleared and took in the face of his lover.

"I had hoped to be back before you woke, I see now that I should have at least left a note, just in case."

"Yes you should have."

Sherlock's hands came up and placed them on either side of Johns face. "You are never to have that gun turned on yourself ever again."

"Can you promise to always leave a note?"

Sherlock smiled slightly. "I will endeavour to always leave a note, no matter what."

"Then I will never turn it on myself again."

"Good."

Sherlock lent up from his crouched position and gently kissed John his lips soft and warm.

"Where did you go?" John asked when they pulled apart.

"We were out of milk."

"You went to the shop?" John asked wide eyed.

"No, not exactly. I went to the coffee place you like so much." Sherlock tilted his head towards the night stand where two take out coffee cups sat as well as a bag that he knew would hold the croissants and jam he loved from the coffee shop just down the road.

"Oh..."

"Yeah." Standing Sherlock picked up his blue dressing gown and placed it over John's bare shoulders. "Come on my John, time for breakfast,"

With that Sherlock picked up the coffee and bag and walked into the kitchen while John wrapped the blue dressing gown around him tying it in place before following Sherlock out of the bedroom.

 **Please let me know what you think :)**


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